


Combeferre and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

by theangrywarlock



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: I'm actually terrible at being funny, M/M, because I'm not very funny, warning for comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theangrywarlock/pseuds/theangrywarlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the title says. The day before that particular funeral. E/R. I'm billing this as a comedy despite the fact that I'm writing in a very miserable world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Combeferre and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Meetings at the Musain varied in style. Sometimes Enjolras had a great deal to say and hours would be taken up by him going through the gamut of slights, gaffes, tax hikes, and other political sundry. He could be charmingly poetic, with an intonation that made the time pass all the quicker until the sun was down and it was time to head home. Those times, the night stretched out before them and most wouldn't wish to leave just yet. Those hours were inspiring for all of them, and they would each leave with a new mission in hand. On those nights, Combeferre thought they were most effective, especially on the days after when they would throw themselves into their work, aided by the ringing aftermath of Enjolras' words.

Then there were the nights when Enjolras spoke only a little, each point addressed with a sharp poignancy, designed to elicit a quick but steady reaction out of them. Those were the nights when Enjolras was furious, only his rage was punctuated by speech, harsh wit, and a bluntness to his logic. He did not dress up his points in metaphors, but nor did he try to encompass terror. The others listened attentively, some taking notes, and when it came to an end, they would assign their own tasks to themselves to carry out.

On those nights, Enjolras normally spoke at the end of the meeting, allowing the time before to be given over to socialization.

Then there were the nights when Enjolras spoke not at all. Either the political field was going much the same way as it did, or he had already brought up any concerns to Combeferre and Courfeyrac and didn't feel the subject was worth bringing to the others. On those nights, the students would be students, and anarchy would often take off within their little Republic of the backroom. Wine bottles would be opened, and they would speak of conquests of the females they had wooed, the travesties committed during class, and where to go to find the best cravats and coats for the coming winter.

Enjolras rarely participated in these conversations.

Combeferre rarely did as well, preferring to spend his time with a thick tome or pouring over his homework.

On the night before Lamarque's funeral, the room was tense but Enjolras had not bothered to speak just yet, so the conversation between the others continued.

Combeferre should have been thinking about the next day. He should have been contemplating the funeral. He should have been completing his homework. What he shouldn't have been doing was going through what he had seen this afternoon.

His eyes bore into the back of Grantaire's head. Grantaire, in a rare good mood, was out of his chair and messing about with Bahorel and Feuilly. He couldn't stand the sound of Grantaire's voice or his laughter.

"That's it. Stay with me, my beautiful one. Easy, spread your legs a little more. Yes, like that. I love you, oh god, I love you."

Combeferre rubbed his eyes as he tried to get the images out of his head. Coming home early to his rooms and accidentally walking in on Enjolras and Grantaire mid-coitus had not been conducive to his mental state. Torn between nausea, anger, and confusion, Combeferre hadn't barged into the room to disrupt them, though that had been an option he had entertained. Why Enjolras chose Grantaire in the first place was still beyond him. The fact that Grantaire still didn't contribute one iota to the cause and the Republic was blatant.

He hated how much Enjolras looked like he was enjoying himself, the sheen of sweat upon both their bodies, how Grantaire looked far too sober and so very loving at the man he was taking. It rankled something deep inside of Combeferre and he wasn't sure of the origin of his extreme distaste.

Part of him even went so far as to hope that Enjolras wasn't in his right mind. Why else would he agree to such an act? His chaste, wonderful friend who looked so at peace with Grantaire ravaging him...

"Combeferre?"

His friend whose hand was upon Combeferre's sleeve, whose clothes hid the marks that he saw Grantaire make on him, his eyes looked at Combeferre with such concern. Enjolras hadn't changed in the few hours after he slept with Grantaire. Had that been their first time? How often did they do it? Why hadn't Enjolras told him about this? Asked him even for advice or just something!

"You've been staring at Grantaire for awhile. Is everything all right?"

How to answer that one? Should he accuse his friend here and now? No, that wouldn't be proper and Enjolras wouldn't appreciate it. He had to swallow down the need to impress upon his friend that being with Grantaire in such a way was a tragedy just waiting to happen. All he really wanted to do was guide Enjolras away from there, place him under surveillance to make certain that he wasn't under the influence of anything, and just ask him why over and over again.

All that came out was, "I need some air."

Enjolras released him, albeit hesitantly, and Combeferre got up from his chair. He was about to make it outside when Bahorel gave Grantaire a playful shove which translated into Grantaire flying backwards and into Combeferre.

None of the group had ever seen Combeferre snap so easily. Maybe it was the contact of Grantaire against his skin, maybe it was the sudden weight of Grantaire and Combeferre realizing that this same weight had been imposed on his friend. Maybe he was tired of being confused. But he didn't shout, he didn't say anything at all.

He just punched Grantaire in the face.

Any small satisfaction he got from the blood that came out was abruptly taken away when Grantaire struck back.

Theirs was the first fistfight to ever break out within the backroom, and Enjolras and Courfeyrac were determined that it be the last.

"Both of you," Courfeyrac ordered in a voice that was far too grave for him, "are going into timeout."

Timeout consisted of a locked storage room. Combeferre's guns had been taken from his person and all the wine bottles were extricated from the room before the door was locked behind them.

Enjolras had given Grantaire his handkerchief to clean away the blood and Joly had inspected the two of them beforehand to make sure the wounds were superficial. "He hits like a girl!" Grantaire exclaimed. "I should be fine."

Save for the fact that he was stuck in a room with Combeferre for half an hour.

Both men retreated to their own small corner of the room, though due to the size their feet kept touching. Combeferre tried his best not to give Grantaire a kick as fighting in here would likely result in far worse bruising and an extended time period.

He wished he had never given anyone the idea of time-out. He traced the name 'Marius' carved near the bottom of the wall.

"Why would you hit me?" Grantaire demanded. "Whatever happened to your whole philosophy of one's liberties end where another's begin?"

"You're not one to talk about liberties," Combeferre snapped back. "You never believed in any of that, so don't you dare throw those teachings in my face! And you took your liberties first with your 'precious boy'!" The words were out before Combeferre could stop them and he mentally chastised himself. He was used to far greater control over his anger than this.

Realization slowly dawned on Grantaire and his face darkened at the knowledge. "He was never yours to lose."

"I didn't want him like that! I had no desire to corrupt him or to drag him down to your depths!"

"I would never drag him down!" It was Grantaire who made the first kick and Combeferre immediately followed suit. They likely would've continued in shin-kicking earnest had not the shouting in the streets caught their attention. It wasn't long until the voices of their friends joined in, and the ground shook with heavy footfalls of them running out of the backroom and the Musain.

"Hey! HEY!" Combeferre stood up and pounded on the door. "If you're leaving, let us out! HEY!"

Grantaire watched him with an amused look. "You know what they're like when the revolutionary fervor is gnawing at their heels."

Combeferre tried to kick down the door to no avail. He turned to Grantaire. "You're heavier than I am! Break down the door!"

"Not a chance."

"Why the hell not?"

Grantaire shrugged. "Enjolras said that we had to stay in here for half an hour. I'm not going to break down the door and risk angering him."

"It's been half an hour already," Combeferre protested.

"No, it hasn't. You're just saying that because you want to leave. You can try to get out if you want, but I'm not helping." So resolute, Grantaire crossed his arms over his chest and stayed where he was.

Had Combeferre possession of his twin pistols, the door would have been riddled with bullet holes. As it was, he had little choice but to pound on the door with his fists, and when he realized he was getting nowhere, he tried to kick it down. This only resulted in him injuring his already bruised foot.

Furiously, he turned to his companion. "What if the revolution is starting early?"

"Then it's a good thing we're safe in here."

"And what if Enjolras needs us?"

"He has others. I'd probably just end up helping him get killed."

"But I wouldn't!"

Grantaire's eyes narrowed. "Maybe you're not the best thing for him if you just want to keep us apart."

This remark culminated in a withering glare. Combeferre was tempted to smash Grantaire over the head with whatever he could find in the closet. Only the knowledge of how little that would help his current situation and how devastated the others may be if he accidentally killed Grantaire when the door was finally opened stayed his hand.

The night continued to pass and their friends had yet to return.

A blanket was found on one of the shelves of the room.

They tried to share.

The blanket ended up ripping in half. Neither of them were content with this, but it was preferred to them having to get closer to one another for warmth.

Sleep didn't come easily to either. Grantaire made a crude comment about how hard it was to sleep without first being buried inside of Enjolras, and Combeferre threatened severe repercussions for when Grantaire finally did close his eyes.

When the sun rose and gradually filtered underneath the storage room door, Combeferre turned a disgusted look upon Grantaire. "I think it's been half an hour."

A little disappointed and sad that Enjolras had forgotten about him, Grantaire stood up. "If he's dead, I'm blaming you."

"Why?"

"Because you hit me and started all of this."

Combeferre could have countered that point easily by stating that Grantaire didn't have to sleep with his best friend thus being the reason why Combeferre lashed out so, but he thought it best to keep quiet and let Grantaire break down the door.

One swift kick close to the door handle sent the door flying wide open, spraying splinters along the way. Both men emerged to a still empty backroom and a vacant Musain.

Grantaire was the first to step out of the cafe as he blinked in the sunlight. "How long were we in that room for?"

Surrounding them was the near demolition of buildings. The Latin Quarter looked to have been torn asunder with furniture in the street, windows broken, and walls torn down.

"Just one night," Combeferre said, though his words rang hollow. It had been just one night, hadn't it? How could this much damage have been done? "I leave them alone for just one night," he muttered as he set to walking. He wasn't sure just where Enjolras and the others had disappeared to, but he was determined to find them.

Even while ignoring what sounded like air horns, the unmanned barricades both minor and major set up at all too many ends of the street, and roving gangs of angry, hungry gamin armed with pistols and knives.

The University had been abandoned, the gates that stood in front of it had been torn down. Explosions could be heard going off in the distance, and Combeferre was left to conclude that he would have to have Words with Enjolras when next he saw him. In the meantime, he was stuck with Grantaire for the interim.

This was officially his worst week ever.


End file.
